“I apologize for that appalling scene, your lordship, but I could think of no other way to oblige you to dance with me!”

At her unexpected words, Wyvern’s heart hammered almost to a stop, causing him to miss his step and necessitating the nearest couple to swing hurriedly out of harm’s way.

Stifling his exasperation, the earl corrected his error and guided Jessica to a less populated area of the floor, whilst racking his brains to conjure up some non-committal remark.

“I had not noticed that you were suffering from a dearth of dancing partners, Miss Beresford,” he managed eventually.

“I cannot imagine how you would know that!” she flung back at him. “You only turn up when it suits you to do so!”

When he did not immediately respond, Jessica’s indignation increased. “Do you dislike me so much that you cannot even bring yourself to converse with me, sir?” she challenged him.

“I do not dislike you, Miss Beresford,” he replied heavily as, doing his utmost to ignore the tantalizing feel of her soft, warm body beneath his fingers, he strove desperately to focus his attention on the maneuvers of the dance.

An Unconventional Miss

Harlequin®Historical

DOROTHY ELBURY

lives in a quiet Lincolnshire village, an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She has been married to her husband (it was love at first sight, of course!) for forty-five years, and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.

DOROTHY ELBURY
An Unconventional Miss

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Available from Harlequin®Historical and DOROTHY ELBURY

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For John, in gratitude for his wholehearted

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

‘No luck, I’m afraid, Jess!’

His face a picture of utter dejection, Nicholas Beresford hurried into the tiny parlour of the wayside inn where, for the past half-hour, his sister had been anxiously awaiting his return.

‘The pole is totally shattered,’ he went on, flinging his slight form into the seat beside her. ‘And it seems that they can’t get a replacement until tomorrow. Added to which, it would appear that there’s not a single decent carriage for hire in the whole blessed place!’

Casting yet another uneasy glance at the clock on the mantelshelf, Jessica’s wide green eyes clouded in despair. ‘But what on earth are we to do, Nicky?’ she queried. ‘It is almost five o’clock and Harry promised Imo that we would be back well before six. Matt will just about crucify me if she starts to worry.’

Leaping to his feet, her young brother began to pace the floor. ‘Not you, Jess,’ he groaned. ‘It was my fault that we left Hampton Court so late—if only I hadn’t wasted all that time in the maze…!’

‘If only you had listened to Harry’s instructions, you mean,’ began Jessica crossly, but then, seeing her brother’s disconsolate expression, she sighed and, for the umpteenth time that afternoon, reminded him that it was hardly his fault that the carriage pole had snapped. In any event, surely they should just be thankful that none of them had been more seriously injured.

‘The doctor told Harry that a good night’s sleep will soon put Olivia back to rights,’ she then informed him. ‘And, thank heavens, Cartwright’s wrists are not broken after all—merely badly strained.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ replied her brother, nervously polishing his spectacles. ‘I imagine Harry is still with his sister? Has he managed to sort out rooms for us all, do you know?’

‘I told him not to book for us,’ said Jessica, getting to her feet. ‘We simply have to find a way to get home, Nicky. Are you sure that you asked everyone? There has to be some sort of conveyance somewhere in the village, surely?’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘Only one small, rather disreputable-looking gig out in the yard here,’ he replied. ‘Barely big enough for the two of us, let alone Cartwright. Besides which, how on earth do you expect him to drive with his wrists strapped up?’

But Jessica was already making for the door. ‘Good grief, Nicky! Surely it is not beyond your capabilities to handle the thing!’ she flung at the dismayed young man and, ignoring his protests, quickly exited the room, adding, ‘Go and tell them to harness one of our leaders to it, right away! I’m off to find Harry—we will need to sort out some arrangements for Cartwright—Matt will probably want to send someone to fetch him home.’

Lieutenant Harry Stevenage was not at all happy when Jessica informed him of her intention to return to Dover Street with only her seventeen-year-old brother as escort. What had started out as a jolly day’s outing to Richmond Park and thence to Hampton Court had, as far as he was concerned, turned into something of a nightmare.

Due to his refusal to take advantage of Stevenage’s whispered instructions, Nicholas had set off into the Court’s maze of hornbeam hedges on his own and had then proceeded to lose himself completely! Since both young ladies had elected to accompany Stevenage—who had mastered the puzzle some years earlier—the three of them had made their way to the centre and back out again in little over half an hour. After a further half an hour had passed without any sight of Nicholas, Stevenage had deemed it necessary to ask the guide to mount his platform and direct the crestfallen Nicholas back to the exit.

Thus, having promised to have the Beresford carriage, along with Jessica and her brother, back at their Dover Street residence no later than six o’clock, this unlooked-for delay had then obliged Stevenage to instruct Cartwright, the Beresfords’ coachman, to whip up the horses. Which command had been followed by constant urges to the distracted driver to make even greater haste.

Not, perhaps, the smartest decision he had ever made, Stevenage now admitted to himself. Taking that corner at such a speed was almost bound to have had disastrous consequences. Hence their present predicament. The pole had fractured, the driver had been wrenched from his box and Olivia, Stevenage’s young sister, had been catapulted across to the opposite side of the carriage, hitting her head on the door frame. He could only thank his lucky stars that none of Matt Beresford’s matched bays had suffered any damage!

‘I do wish you would reconsider, Jess!’ pleaded. ‘A fine fellow your brother will think me for allowing the pair of you to go off on your own like this!’

‘You do talk absolute nonsense, Harry!’ she replied, laughing at his injured expression. ‘Nicky and I are perfectly capable of seeing ourselves home—it is barely six miles from here and we could practically walk it! Besides which, you must know that Matt would expect you to stay with your sister. Now help me up, there’s a dear boy—and do tell Nicky to make haste!’

Lieutenant Harry Stevenage’s acquaintanceship with Jessica, though relatively short, had been of sufficient duration for him to have learned that any attempt to dissuade her from a course upon which she had set her heart was likely to be met with dogged resistance. Ever since he had first laid eyes upon her at his godfather’s Lincolnshire seat, some seven months previously, he had counted himself amongst her most devoted admirers, regardless of the fact that Sir Frederick had earnestly cautioned his godson not to allow himself to become too attached to the capricious Miss Beresford. He had taken pains to warn the lieutenant that Jessica’s father, the late Sir Matthew Beresford, had been in the habit of indulging his daughter to such a degree that rumour had it that she was never truly happy unless she was getting her own way. And only since the recent arrival of her half-brother, Matt Beresford, who had been obliged to give up a lucrative lifestyle in India to take up his estranged father’s reins, had there been any noticeable improvement in her conduct.

Yet, despite Jessica’s somewhat unpredictable behaviour, Stevenage doubted that there was a man alive who could resist such damnably appealing loveliness. Such kissable lips—would that he were given the opportunity!—the dearest little nose and those incredible green eyes set in the creamiest of complexions, the sum total of which was entrancingly framed in a dazzling halo of silvery blonde ringlets. And, as if all of that were not far more than any fellow could reasonably ask for, the saints above had also endowed the little beauty with the most curvaceous figure that young Stevenage had ever come across in the whole of his twenty-two years! His considered opinion had been that the occasional fractious outburst was a small price to pay for the privilege of being included amongst her favoured few.

Nevertheless, as he watched the shabby little gig bowl out of the stable yard, a pensive frown marred his handsome features and, in reply to Jessica’s enthusiastic wave of farewell, the best he could manage was a half-hearted lift of his hand. He stood lost in thought for some minutes then, conscious that his duty to his injured sibling ought to be uppermost in his mind, he gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders and turned and retraced his steps into the inn.

‘There now, Nicky,’ declared Jessica warmly. ‘I was quite right. You are managing the reins quite beautifully.’

Nicholas snorted. ‘It was not my driving ability that I doubted, Jess!’ he retorted. ‘Matt has made sure that I can handle pretty well any carriage you might care to name. It’s this mad idea of yours that I’m not keen on. I still don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed overnight with the others. We could have sent a messenger—’

‘Oh, yes?’ interrupted Jessica, with a withering glance. ‘And had Imogen up half the night worrying herself to death about us, I shouldn’t wonder. At least this way, she will be able to see for herself that we really are unhurt. And, what with Matt doing his level best to wrap her in cotton wool now that she is increasing, it simply will not do to have him flying off the handle!’

‘Anyone would think that she was the first woman ever to bear a child!’ muttered her brother.

‘Now, be fair, Nicky,’ returned Jessica complacently. ‘You can’t have forgotten that Matt’s own mother died in childbirth!’

‘Oh, lord! It had slipped my memory! How stupid of me. Sorry!’ Glancing sideways, he gave her a rueful smile. ‘I sometimes get the impression that you are starting to become almost human!’

Jessica laughed and a faint blush crept across her cheeks. ‘I do try, you know,’ she said quietly. ‘Ever since that dreadful business with Wentworth, I have tried really hard to be more like Cousin Imo and behave as she and Matt would have me behave…’Her voice trailed away and her bright eyes clouded over as she cast her mind back to the previous September when Philip Wentworth, the estate gamekeeper, had all but succeeded in his attempt to abduct and seduce her. Had it not been for the timely actions of her newly acquired half-brother…! A cold shiver ran down her back as the never-to-be forgotten events of that dreadful day replayed themselves in her mind.

Mindful of his sister’s discomfort, Nicholas reached across and took hold of his sister’s hand.

‘Well, I think that you’ve done amazingly well,’ he sought to assure her. ‘I scarcely recognised you when I came back from school at Christmas. Believe me, Matt would never have agreed to give you this Season if he hadn’t thought that you had earned it.’

‘He has been enormously good to us, hasn’t he?’ Jessica smiled and blinked away the tears that threatened. ‘When he first turned up, I was really hateful to him, but after everything he’s done for us all—working so hard to bring Thornfield back to scratch and then going to all that trouble to get Mama settled in Bath—I’ve grown enormously fond of him. It’s not difficult to see why Imogen fell in love with him.’ She gave a tremulous smile. ‘As it happens, it has often crossed my mind that he is just the sort of man that I would choose to marry, some day!’

‘I take leave to doubt that there are many like him,’ chuckled her brother, returning his attention to his driving. ‘Besides which, I rather had the impression that you had set your sights on a certain lieutenant.’

‘Harry Stevenage!’ Jessica let out a peal of laughter. ‘Good heavens, no! He isn’t nearly rich enough for my taste!’ She shot a mischievous glance at her brother. ‘You must know that I am on the lookout for a duke—or, at the very least, a belted earl!’

Having expected an immediate riposte for coming out with the sort of remark that might well have been expected from the Jessica of old, she was surprised to discover that her brother seemed not to be listening to her. In fact, his attention seemed to be keenly focussed on the hedgerow just ahead of them. Looking about her, she was suddenly conscious of the fact that the narrow lane along which they were travelling was devoid of any other traffic.

Clutching at his arm, she whispered, ‘What is it, Nicky? What’s wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. I thought I saw—!’

The rest of his words were cut off as two villainous-lookiindividuals, each brandishing a stout stick, leapt out from behind a clump of bushes. Grabbing hold of the harness, the first man dragged the horse to a standstill, while his accomplice darted towards Jessica and threatened her with his cudgel.

‘Yer purse, little missy, if ye please!’ he growled, his free hand reaching out to clutch hold of her booted ankle.

At once, Nicholas was on his feet, beside himself with rage. ‘Take your filthy hands off my sister!’ he cried and, pulling the driving whip from its socket, he proceeded to lash out at the man on the gig’s offside.

It did not take Jessica long to realise that, with this futile action, highly commendable though it might have been, her brother had put both their lives in considerable danger. Having quickly taken in the men’s shabby attire, along with the fact that they carried makeshift weapons, it had occurred to her that, in all probability, the men’s intent was merely to relieve their intended victims of any valuables they might be carrying and then to make themselves scarce. And, since she was more than willing to part with every single penny in her possession—as well as any other item of value that the men might have demanded—she would have been prepared to gamble that the easy acquisition of such an unexpectedly fulsome haul would have seen the two footpads very quickly on their way.

Tugging at Nicholas’s coat-tails, she flung her bulging reticule at her tormentor, at the same time urging her brother to sit down and be quiet. But it was too late.

As the metal tip of the whip’s leather thong struck him painfully on the cheekbone, the man who was at the horse’s head uttered an angry snarl and, letting go of the harness, raised his stick and flew at Nicholas in a rage. His initial burst of confidence instantly collapsing, the boy recoiled in dread, lost his balance on the gig’s narrow step and tumbled backwards into the roadway where he lay sprawled at the man’s feet, entirely at his mercy.

Seconds ticked past as the thug stood glaring down at Jessica’s now panic-stricken young brother and then, with a malicious grin on his face, he slowly raised his weapon in both hands, clearly intent upon inflicting some terrible punishment on the youth. Jessica’s hands went to her mouth in horror but, unable to prevent the frightened whimper that escaped her lips, she closed her eyes, threw up a fervent prayer and prepared herself for the worst.

All of a sudden, a single shot rang out in the silence. The stick fell from the ruffian’s hand as, letting out a howl of pain, he clutched at his bloodstained forearm. Then, without a backward glance, and followed closely by his equally terrified accomplice, he fled back in the direction from whence they had first appeared.

The sound of the two men crashing their way through the undergrowth was very quickly drowned out by the noise of fast-approaching hooves. Jessica, having almost fallen out of the carriage in her haste to reach her brother, sank to her knees at his side, begging him to speak to her. She barely registered the arrival of the mount’s rider who, having leapt from his steed, was now lifting her, none too gently, to her feet and thrusting her to one side.

‘Better let me see to him,’ he advised curtly. ‘He might have broken something.’

Jessica, who had been about to challenge the newcomer over his singularly high-handed manner, found herself hesitating. Although she could see only the back of the man’s head from her present position, his attractively deep voice, whilst rather brusque, was well modulated and she could tell by the cut of his riding jacket—which fitted across his broad shoulders to perfection—that he appeared to be a gentleman of means. She bit back the stinging riposte that had been forming and regarded him with some interest.

Pulling off his gloves, the stranger knelt beside Nicholas’s still-prone figure and began to run his hands over the boy’s body. After several minutes, during which time Jessica clasped her hands together tightly, scarcely daring to take a breath, the man knelt back on his heels and uttered a satisfied grunt.

‘No bones broken,’ he professed cheerfully. ‘My guess is that the lad has merely passed out—this should do the trick.’ And, extracting a small brandy flask from his inside pocket, he gently prised Nicholas’s lips apart and allowed a few drops of the spirit to trickle into the boy’s mouth.

Her eyes wide with apprehension, Jessica edged closer in order to better her view. As far as she could see, there seemed to be no appreciable change in her brother’s demeanour but then, quite suddenly, there came a slight choking sound and the boy’s eyes flew open.

‘W-wha’s happening?’ he croaked and, catching sight of his sister’s anxious face, he would have tried to sit up had not the stranger placed a restraining hand upon his chest.

‘Easy now, my boy. Gently does it.’

Jessica flew at once to her brother’s side.

‘Oh, Nicky, Nicky!’ she gasped. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Just about everywhere!’ groaned Nicholas as, very gingerly, he forced his body into a sitting position and raised a hand to his throbbing head. ‘What happened?’ he queried, looking firstly towards his overjoyed sister and then up at their rescuer, who having risen, was holding out his hands to help the boy up.

‘Your attackers made off,’ was the man’s terse reply.

Nicholas frowned and, his mind still somewhat befuddled, shook his head. ‘I thought I heard a shot,’ he faltered. ‘But then—I suppose I must have passed out.’

After allowing the stranger to help him to his feet, Nicholas leant his trembling body against the side of the gig and, reaching out, took hold of his sister’s hand. ‘They didn’t hurt you, did they, Jess?’ he asked urgently. ‘I’ll never forgive myself—’

‘No harm done, I promise you!’ she returned, hurriedly patting his hand, then, after a moment’s hesitation, she gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Apart from the loss of all our money, that is,’ she added ruefully.

‘Oh, good,’ he replied, clearly still in something of a daze. ‘Hadn’t we best get on our way, then?’

Then, taking a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders, gripped hold of the gig’s side-rail and attempted to haul himself up on to the driving seat. Almost immediately, he felt himself swaying backwards and, had not a pair of powerful arms reached out and caught hold of him, he would surely have fallen to the ground once again.

‘A little premature, perhaps?’ suggested the stranger, with a sympathetic smile as, without apparent effort, he hoisted the boy on to the gig’s seat. ‘Hold tight, my lad. It looks as though we might have to secure you somehow. I must assume that your sister is capable of driving?’

Ignoring Jessica’s gasp of protest, the man walked over to his horse and, after extracting a length of rope from the saddlebag, returned to Nicholas’s side and calmly proceeded to strap the boy to the gig’s backrest. Then, standing back, he surveyed his efforts.

‘That should do.’ He gave a satisfied nod then, turning to Jessica, he offered her his hand. ‘Up you get, Miss Beresford. You need have no further fears of being set upon, I assure you—you will have my escort for the remainder of your journey.’

Fuming, but unable to find the words to express her indignation at the fellow’s arrogant assumption that she would be unable to cope without his further assistance, Jessica could only do as she was bid. It was not until she was in her seat and had taken up the reins that the thought occurred to her that the man had addressed her by name.

‘How do you suppose he knows who we are?’ she muttered to Nicholas in a low voice, as she watched the tall stranger vault nimbly into his saddle and swing his mount round. ‘Do you think he could be another felon—some sort of accomplice?’

‘Odd sort of accomplice to go shooting his comrades,’ returned her brother, who was feeling far from well. ‘Don’t be such a goose, Jess! The fellow has done us a good turn—though how the devil we are going to explain all this to Matt defies thinking about!’ Then, clasping his hand to his throbbing head, he begged, ‘Do let us get on!’

Chapter Two

For the first hundred yards or so, their escort remained behind the carriage, his clear grey eyes carefully scrutinising the terrain, both to the front and to the rear. Gradually, though, as the little party approached the more populated areas, the horseman drew closer and closer until, eventually, he was abreast of the gig. Then, after riding alongside in silence for some minutes, he spoke.

‘Your brother is recovering from his shock, I trust?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘He appears to be doing very nicely, thank you, sir,’ replied Jessica, without turning her head. Keeping her eyes firmly on the road ahead, she was pondering the man’s remark. How was it that he knew her name and how could he have known that Nicholas was her brother? That this man—whoever he might be—seemed to be in possession of so much information about their circumstances concerned and puzzled her greatly.

But then, as the silence between them continued at length, Jessica’s conscience began to smite her as, somewhat belatedly, it occurred to her that she had made no attempt to offer the man her gratitude for his timely intervention.

‘I fear that we are greatly in your debt, sir,’ she began primly, only to be interrupted by his smothered laugh. Swinging her head sideways, she glared at him. ‘Have I said something to amuse you, sir?’

‘Not at all, ma’am,’ he returned promptly. ‘I am glad that I was able to be of some service!’

Although his face was not turned in her direction, it was not difficult to see that it was creased in a wide grin. In the midst of her outrage, she was astonished to find herself thinking what a devilishly handsome creature he was when he smiled. Biting her lip in exasperation, she racked her brains to find a less stilted way of expressing her gratitude.

‘I simply cannot imagine why those men should have chosen to waylay us,’ she eventually managed. ‘I should not have thought that this shabby carriage was the sort of vehicle that would lend itself to a hold-up!’

‘It possibly had more to do with the way in which you were flashing your blunt, back at the Rose and Crown,’ he offered.

‘Flashing my…!’ For a moment, Jessica was lost for words, but then, as a most disturbing thought entered her head, she found herself filled with a desperate need to vanquish her sudden suspicions.

‘I take it, then,’ she said carefully, ‘that your arrival back there was not just some lucky coincidence?’

‘Hardly!’ was his astonishing reply. ‘I was right behind you from the moment you left the inn!’

Her heart sank. ‘W-why was that?’ she asked, unable to prevent the tremble in her voice.

‘Because of those two fellows,’ he replied casually. ‘I was aware that they had been watching you for some little while in the inn’s stable yard and then, when I saw them make off through the back woods, it seemed pretty clear to me what they were about.’

A flicker of relief ran through her, but then, ‘But why did you not see fit to warn us about them?’ she demanded indignantly.

There was a moment’s silence. ‘I rather got the impression that you were not the sort of young lady who would take kindly to a piece of friendly advice from a total stranger,’ he replied at last.

Now thoroughly affronted, Jessica snapped, ‘What utter nonsense! If you knew that a felony was about to be committed, it was your duty to inform us!’

‘Well, it is not exactly true to say that I knew they were up to no good,’ he retorted, his hackles rising. ‘Their furtive behaviour merely led me to believe they might well be—which is why I followed your carriage!’

‘And then waited until they had attacked us!’ was her withering retort.

Taking a deep breath, the man gave a brief nod. ‘That was an unfortunate error on my part,’ he admitted stiffly. ‘I had not expected violence—their kind is, usually, only in it for the pickings. They like to terrify their victims into a quick surrender of their valuables and then make off, as fast as they can. Insofar as I have been led to believe, they tend to pick upon travellers who do not look as though they are able to take care of themselves—such as your brother and yourself. I doubt that they were prepared for retaliation.’

Just as she herself had supposed at the time, thought Jessica ruefully. If only Nicky had kept quiet! But then, another thought flashed into her mind.

‘You were perfectly content to see us robbed, then?’ she flung at him.

His face darkened. ‘If you will go round flourishing bundles of notes under people’s noses,’ he replied calmly, ‘you can hardly complain when the inevitable occurs!’

Hurriedly recalling her efforts to persuade the gig’s owner to part with his carriage, Jessica’s cheeks reddened. Although she was bound to admit that there might be some slight glimmer of truth in what the man was saying, she was not at all happy to have received such a thorough set-down from him. With the exception of her half-brother, Matt, the majority of men with whom she came into contact were usually so dazzled by her fairy-tale beauty that they were more inclined to grovel at her feet than find any fault with her behaviour.

Having arrived in the capital some six weeks earlier, it had taken her no time at all to become the year’s Toast of the Town. Under the aegis of Lady Sydenham—her cousin Imogen’s godmother—she had been given entrée to all of the best houses, and now no fashionable gathering was considered complete if the lovely Miss Beresford was not in attendance—especially since her magnetic presence practically guaranteed that a good many of the available men-about-town would gladly forfeit a night at the gaming tables and put in an appearance, merely on the off-chance of a smile and a kind word from the beauty!

At first, having spent the previous year and a half desperately craving a Season in the capital, Jessica had revelled in all the attention that the ton saw fit to bestow upon her. However, the feverish excitement that she had felt at the onset was beginning to subside, only to be replaced by a kind of uninterested apathy. A great many of the most prestigious assemblies to which she had been invited had proved to be boring in the extreme and, even though she had already received at least a half a dozen proposals of marriage, she had been singularly unimpressed with every one of her intending suitors.

Gentlemen about town, it seemed to her, were very much of a muchness. They drank far too much, indulged in inexplicable sports like cock-fighting and bare-knuckle boxing and, when they weren’t off to the fencing salons or the race-course, they spent a good deal of their time in smoky gambling rooms or other questionable dens of iniquity. And, even when they did deign to turn up to some function or other, the obsequious insincerity with which they fawned over every single one of the affluent and unattached females present—regardless of their looks—seemed to suggest to Jessica that the majority of these coxcombs were merely seeking to palm themselves off on to some unsuspecting heiress, with an eye to lining their own pockets!

The failed abduction of the previous year had taught her an invaluable lesson regarding the wily behaviour of the predatory male and, thanks to her own valiant endeavours to model her conduct on that of her more decorous cousin Imogen, Jessica was now far less likely to be moved by mere sycophantic flattery.

Nevertheless, having had her radiant loveliness constantly remarked upon for practically the whole of her nineteen years—and despite all of her recent efforts to curb any repetition of the vulgar displays of vanity that had been all too common until Matt’s arrival—it was hardly surprising that she should feel just a little piqued that their rescuer who, despite having spoken so few words to her throughout the entire journey, had managed to succeed in giving her the distinct impression that he was totally impervious to her appearance. In point of fact, his very indifference was making Jessica feel quite self-conscious—a most unusual state of affairs for the highly sought-after Miss Beresford!

Still deeply offended by the stranger’s criticisms, it was with some considerable relief that she gradually became aware of the fact that the volume of traffic about them was beginning to increase and, as the carriage swung out of the King’s Road into Kensington, she realised that they were at last approaching an area of which she was fairly cognisant.

Turning her face towards their escort, with the express intent of demolishing his pretentiousness with the full benefit of one of her most dazzling smiles, she said prettily, ‘Since we seem to be nearing the park, sir, there is really no need for you to trouble yourself any further. I am very well acquainted with this part of town.’

‘I have no that doubt you are, ma’am,’ was his non-committal reply. ‘However, I believe that it behoves me to see you to your door.’

Had Jessica not been seated in a rocking gig, she would have stamped her foot, just as she had been frequently wont to do in one of her old furies. Instead, having spotted a narrow opening in the considerable crush of traffic ahead of them, she curled her fingers tightly about the reins and, giving them a quick flick, urged the horse forward, in the hopes of giving the stranger the slip.

The sudden lurching of the little gig caused Nicholas, who had been dozing on and off for most of the journey, to fling open his eyes in alarm. Whereupon he let out a warning gasp. ‘Take care, Jess!’

Then, before she had time to realise what he was about, their escort had shot out a hand, caught hold of the left-hand rein and, with some considerable effort, had managed to haul the mare out of the path of a rapidly approaching curricle.

‘Not a very clever manoeuvre, if I may say so,’ he observed dryly, as the gig rocked to a standstill. ‘Always best to keep out of the path of fast-moving traffic, I’ve found.’

Jessica, who was shaking from head to toe, was unable to discern whether the trembling was due to her pent-up fury or as a result of the near miss. She fixed the stranger with a look of such rancour that, in the normal way, would have had its recipient reeling back in dismay at its ferocity.

‘How dare you, sir!’ she ground out, her green eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Let go of my rein this instant!’

Unperturbed, the man merely grinned, raising both of his hands to indicate that he no longer had control of her horse. ‘Off you go, my girl!’ he drawled. ‘But do try to steer in a straight line, if you can possibly manage it!’

‘I say, steady on, Jess!’ murmured Nicholas as Jessica, teeth gritted, flicked angrily at the reins to signal the mare to walk on. ‘This is no time to lose your rag—that’s another good turn the chap’s done us and that’s a fact!’

Still fuming, his sister deigned not to reply. With a set face and a stiff back, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the road in front of her and inched her way back into the fast-moving stream of traffic. Nicholas, having set about disentangling himself from the coils of rope that had held him upright, cast an anxious glance at her rigid expression and, recognising the warning signs, waited in breathless trepidation for the expected outburst which, to his intense surprise, failed to materialise.

The remainder of the journey was completed in total silence until, having reined in the mare outside the front entrance of the elegant Dover Street mansion currently occupied by the Beresford family, Jessica set the wheel brake and nudged her brother to get out of the gig.

For several seconds, she waited in expectation of the stranger dismounting in order to assist her to the ground. He, however, remained in his saddle and made no such move. Seething with frustration, she found herself obliged to shuffle awkwardly along the seat and summon Nicholas to hand her down.

No sooner had her feet reached the pavement than she turned towards the front steps and was just about to mount them when she heard the man call her brother’s name.

‘Master Beresford!’

Swinging round, she was just in time to see the rider extracting a bulging package from his pocket. ‘Here you are, young man! Catch!’

Jessica’s astonished eyes followed the trajectory of the bundle as the startled youth made a valiant but vain attempt to grab it in its flight towards the steps. Having had no difficulty in recognising the item as her own missing reticule, she quickly sidestepped and caught the object neatly between her outstretched hands.

‘My reticule’ she exclaimed and hurriedly examined the interior of the crushed article. ‘But all of the money is still here!’

A suspicious frown appeared on her face and she demanded to know how the rider had come to be into possession of her property.

He inclined his head. ‘It would seem that your attacker dropped it in his haste to escape.’

Suddenly feeling very small and rather foolish, Jessica then found herself confronted with the inescapable fact that, no matter what her own private opinion in regard to this stranger, with his oh-so-toplofty condescension, might be, she was morally bound to express her gratitude for his assistance.

‘I am very much obliged to you, sir,’ she ground out, again making ready to climb the steps. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to remain with the gig while I acquaint my brother with the details of our unfortunate—escapade? He will, no doubt, wish to reward you for your efforts.’

‘No reward is necessary, Miss Beresford,’ replied the now widely grinning horseman, sweeping off his hat in the most grandiose manner. ‘I am more than happy to have been of assistance, I assure you.’

Choosing to ignore this somewhat sardonic remark, Jessica flounced up the steps and tugged impatiently at the doorbell.

Their rescuer waited until the front door had opened to admit the couple, remaining absolutely motionless until, with a resounding thud, it closed behind them. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, he wheeled his mount around, ready to retrace his steps. Just as he was about to spur his horse into action, however, his attention was caught by a little flash of white on the step of the gig. Curious, he leant down to retrieve the object which, on closer inspection, proved to be Jessica’s handkerchief. He deduced that it must have fallen from the pocket of her pelisse during her somewhat ungainly scramble from the gig, the memory of which brought a reluctant smile to his lips.

After staring down at the little scrap of lace for some moments, he gave a little grunt and was just about to toss it back into the carriage when, on a sudden impulse, he held it up to his nose, thoughtfully inhaling its delicate perfume. Then, with a short laugh, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his riding jacket and rode off in the direction of the park, without a backward glance.

‘And you are telling me that during all that time, this fellow didn’t even give you his name?’ demanded Matt Beresford of his sister, after listening to her stumbling recital.

‘Well—he may have,’ owned Jessica, edging closer to her cousin Imogen, who was seated beside her on the sofa. ‘There was so much confusion—I was worried that Nicky had hurt himself badly—then he—the man, I mean—pushed me out of the way and, by the time we started off again, the opportunity didn’t arise!’

‘As a matter of fact,’ interrupted Nicholas who, having had his head bathed and attended to by a sympathetic Imogen, was feeling much more the thing, ‘I do seem to recall that he did introduce himself. It was when he was prodding me around feeling for broken bones and such, but I was in such a state that I’m afraid I failed to properly register much of what he was saying.’

He paused, frowning to himself. ‘He did have a most unusual signet ring, though—I noticed it as he was putting his gloves back on—huge green thing it was—had a sort of dragon on it!’

‘You really should have invited the gentleman in, Jessica,’ said Imogen, shaking her head. ‘It was very remiss of you. Now, unless he chooses to call to find out if you have recovered from your ordeal, it is most unlikely that we will ever be given the opportunity to thank him for coming to your rescue. If he had not turned up when he did, heaven only knows what might have happened! I do wish you had thought to stay at the inn and sent a messenger on. It would have saved so much trouble!’

‘I’m awfully sorry, Imo,’ replied her cousin. ‘I really thought it was for the best. I didn’t mean to upset you, I promise.’

‘Just wait until I lay my hands on young Stevenage!’ Matt ground out wrathfully. ‘If he thinks for one moment that—’

‘No, really, Matt!’ interrupted Jessica in protest. ‘Harry was not to blame—he did try to stop me, but I…’ Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped in confusion as Beresford’s own swivelled angrily towards her.

‘You did just as you always do—which is exactly what suits you! Well, Miss Cleverboots, I’ll have you know that I have had quite enough—!’

He stopped as his wife reached out and laid her hand on his jacket sleeve.

‘As long as they are safe, my love, that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?’

Staring down into her silver-grey eyes, Matt gave a reluctant smile and took her hand in his. ‘I can’t have you getting distressed, sweetheart. This sort of thing cannot be at all good for your condition!’

‘Oh, really, Matt,’ laughed Imogen, patting his hand. ‘How many times must I tell you that I am not an invalid! I am a perfectly healthy young woman who happens to be expecting a baby!’

Unconvinced, Matt shook his head. ‘I should have packed everything up and returned to Thornfield the minute you told me!’ he groaned. ‘Home is always the best place to be at such a time. There, at least, you would not have to put up with this sort of irresponsible upset!’

‘Nonsense, my dear,’ chided his wife gently. ‘And miss the Conyghams’ ball? It is said to be the event of the Season! Surely, you cannot be thinking of denying me the opportunity to show off that glorious confection of Madame Devy’s that has just cost you such an exorbitant amount of money?’ Her eyes twinkled up at him. ‘Whilst it still fits, remember!’

With another reluctant grin, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead.

‘Well, so long as you promise to let me know the minute it all starts getting too much for you.’

She gave him a warm smile. ‘You must know that I would never do anything that might harm either this child, or myself, Matt,’ she returned quietly. ‘I have already given you my word.’

Matt’s lips twisted briefly for one moment then, with a quick nod, he turned away and strode back to his own seat on the other side of the fireplace.

‘I’m really sorry, Matt,’ said Jessica, stepping forward and catching hold of his hand just as he was about to sit down. ‘I promise you that I was trying to avoid any upset—I don’t want Imo getting distressed any more than you do! It was just meant to be a straightforward ride home!’

He took a deep breath, ‘Very well, Jess. I will say no more about it—apart from giving young Stevenage a piece of my mind, that is! You can hardly expect me to think him the most suitable escort for you if he is unable to control your outrageous behaviour!’

Jessica reddened. She was well aware that Harry Stevenage was as putty in her hands but, having grown rather fond of the young lieutenant, she did not care to think of him being chastised on her account.

‘Please, Matt!’ she begged her brother. ‘Harry is not to blame for any of this! Had it not been for the fact that his mind was so distracted with Olivia’s injuries, I am sure that he would have taken a much firmer line!’ And, seeing Matt’s expression soften, she added, encouragingly, ‘He was simply splendid in the way he took charge of everything—quietened down the horses, sent for a doctor and procured rooms for both of the invalids—all in the space of barely an hour!’

‘Well, at any event,’ retorted Matt, partly appeased, ‘it would seem that the lad’s two years with the military have not been entirely wasted. I dare say it will do no harm to give him the benefit of the doubt—this time!’

Heaving a sigh of relief, Jessica sat down again, but then, noticing a deep frown upon Nicholas’s face, she enquired anxiously if his head was still paining him.

‘No, not really,’ he muttered absently. ‘I know it’s there—somewhere in the back of my mind—almost on the very tip of my tongue.’

Staring at him in astonishment, she asked, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘That fellow’s name,’ he replied, still frowning. ‘I almost had it. Dryden or Brydon or—oh, botheration! It’s gone again!’

‘Haydn?’ chorused Jessica and Imogen in unison, whilst Matt simultaneously offered ‘Lydian or Layburn?’ all of which suggestions Nicholas met with a vigorous shake of his head.

Whereupon, the next ten minutes or so were spent plying Nicholas with every conceivable version of any similar-sounding name that the three of them could call to mind until, finally, as the offerings became more and more nonsensical, Imogen and Jessica collapsed against each other in convulsions of laughter and begged their menfolk to desist.

‘How about Reardon or Raven?’ chortled Matt who, totally entranced by his wife’s infectious gurgle, was loath to bring the unexpected merriment to a close.

Nicholas started to shake his head again, then he stiffened and a faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Raven?’ he mused. ‘Ryvern? Great heavens! That’s it!’ he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.

‘Ryvern?’ chimed his audience, in chorus.

‘No, not Ryvern!’ was his gleeful reply. ‘Wyvern! The fellow’s name is Wyvern—hence the dragon on his ring, I suppose!’ he added in triumph.

There was a long pause, then, ‘Wyvern?’ said Matt thoughtfully. ‘I seem to remember that there was a Viscount Wyvern in my year at Oxford—Theodore Ashcroft by name—no, hang on—I heard that his father, the earl, had died, so I suppose Theo would have inherited the title. About my age, would you say?’

Uncertain as to the age of the stranger, Nicholas was obliged to admit that he had no idea, but Jessica, who had had greater opportunity to study their rescuer, gave a vehement shake of her head.

‘Several years younger, I should have thought,’ she declared. ‘Midtwenties, possibly—and he certainly didn’t strike me as aristocratic! Quite the contrary, if you want my opinion!’

‘Nevertheless,’ Matt pointed out, ‘at least it gives us something to go on—no harm in making a few discreet enquiries. The least I can do is to thank the fellow for returning my delinquent sister to the bosom of her family!’

He ducked as a velvet cushion sailed over his head. ‘Rotten shot!’ he said, as a broad grin formed on his lips. ‘Clearly, all those hours I spent trying to teach you to play cricket were a total waste of time!’

Chapter Three

Having deposited his hired mount at the nearest livery stables, the subject of their discussion, recently decommissioned Dragoon Major the Honourable Benedict Ashcroft, now Ninth Earl of Wyvern, set off up South Audley Street to walk the short distance to the family’s Grosvenor Square mansion.

He had not gone far, however, when he heard himself hailed by a familiar voice.

‘Ashcroft! I say! Over here, old chap!’

On the far side of the road, the driver of a very dashing curricle and pair was waving his whip at him in the most enthusiastic fashion. Instantly recognising his one-time comrade-in-arms, the Honourable Freddy Fitzallan, Wyvern, his face breaking into a broad smile, returned the salute with gusto and nimbly wove his way through the busy traffic to greet his old friend.

‘By all that’s wonderful!’ grinned Fitzallan, leaning down to grasp Wyvern’s outstretched hand. ‘Last person I expected to see! Just got back, have you? Where are you off to? Hop up; I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Hardly worth your trouble, Freddy,’ said Wyvern with a grin, hoisting himself up beside his friend, nevertheless. ‘But I’m headed for Ashcroft House, if you are of a mind.’

Fitzallan whipped up his horses and, with considerable expertise, threaded his way back into the stream of vehicles.

‘Dreadfully sorry to hear about poor old Theo, Ben,’ he said, shooting a fleeting glance at his friend. ‘Hard to believe someone as experienced as your brother could have been that careless with his weapon!’ He paused for a moment, then added, with a slightly self-conscious air, ‘S’pose we will all have to get into the habit of calling you Wyvern now!’

‘So it would seem,’ returned the new earl morosely. ‘And the very last thing I could have wanted, as you must know!’

Fitzallan gave a sympathetic nod, then, clearing his throat, asked, ‘When did you get back?’

‘Managed to get a passage last night—got into Tilbury early this morning. Had to leave Berridge and Taverner to collect up my things and bring the horses and carriage over as best they could—I hired a hack and rode straight to Brentford. Thought it best to get the full details from the solicitor before I saw my grandmother.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help, old chap, I hope you know that you have only to ask!’

‘Point taken, Freddy,’ said Wyvern, forcing a smile. ‘But, unless you happen to have the odd thirty thousand going begging, it would appear that there’s not a lot that anyone can do!’

Fitzallan let out a low whistle. ‘Phew!’ he gasped ‘As bad as that! I had heard the rumours, of course—difficult to avoid them, as you know—but I hadn’t realised…’

He was silent for a moment, then, somewhat apologetically, went on, ‘’Fraid my pockets are to let, as usual. Had to borrow a score from Holt, only yesterday. Maybe he can help—pretty well loaded, dear old Simon, as you know!’

Shaking his head, Wyvern replied, ‘I was joking, dear boy—wouldn’t dream of asking either one of you. Apart from which, there would be little point, since I don’t have the means to pay back a loan of that magnitude.’

Then, as briefly as possible, he outlined the bones of his earlier meeting with the family solicitor, carefully skating over the less savoury aspects of his deceased older sibling’s downfall.

From the limited information that he had managed to cull from Humphreys, who had been the Ashcroft family’s solicitor for a good many years, Wyvern had endeavoured to piece together something of his late brother’s final days.

It appeared that, during the two years following the carriage accident in which his young wife and baby son had both lost their lives, the late Lord Wyvern had done his best to drown his sorrows in drink. Unfortunately, to the eventual detriment of Ashcroft Grange, the Wyverns’ family seat in Middlesex, he had also spent a great many of his waking hours frittering away large sums of money at the gaming tables of one or other of the many gambling dens in the capital. Insofar as his younger brother had been able to establish, it would appear that not one person amongst the late earl’s recently acquired circle of friends had felt himself either inclined or able to curtail Theo’s reckless proclivities.

To make matters worse—if that were at all possible—Humphreys had then discovered that the late earl, having gambled away the bulk of his own not inconsiderable fortune, had begun to make significant inroads into the estate’s ancient assets. In order to fund his spiralling obsession, he had systematically sold off a good many of the cherished silverware collections, along with a quantity of highly prized paintings, irreplaceable tapestries and other such items of value.

Barely able to meet the look of disbelief in his client’s eyes, Humphreys had been obliged to steel himself in order to continue his recital of the sorry catalogue of the late earl’s excesses, the sad truth of the matter being that, had it not been for the dedication of the small handful of staff who had stayed loyal to their rapidly declining young master, the once carefully husbanded and prosperous estate might well have run to seed. In addition to which, he revealed that Theodore had penned a list containing the names of his creditors, who were collectively owed an amount in excess of thirty thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand of which was in unpaid gambling debts!

As the enormity of his beloved brother’s fall from grace had gradually began to force its way into Wyvern’s shocked sensibilities, the reasons for Theo finally having elected to put a period to his life had become all too clear to his reluctant successor.

Nevertheless, as he now pointed out to Fitzallan, who had digested his friend’s halting narration in a frowning silence, the question still remained as to how the devil he might set about salvaging the situation?

‘If what your man says is correct,’ observed Fitzallan, carefully inching his way through the congestion of traffic on Grosvenor Street, ‘it would seem that you have very little option left but to sell up and take what you can get out of the deal.’

‘Oh, not you as well!’ exclaimed Wyvern, affronted at his friend’s casual dismissal of the estate that had been in the family’s possession for nigh on eight generations. ‘That was Humphreys’s advice too, but the whole idea is unthinkable! I would sooner die!’ But then, as the awful significance of these melodramatic words hit him, he let out a hollow laugh and added, ‘I trust it won’t come to that, of course!’

‘Steady on, Ben, old thing!’ protested Fitzallan. ‘We have not quite reached point-non-plus. If we all put our heads together, we may yet come up with a solution. You might even find that her ladyship has the odd idea or two up her sleeve—she always used to keep her ear pretty close to the ground, as I recall.’

Wyvern attempted a grin. ‘From what Humphreys tells me, Grandmama would seem to be as mettlesome as ever—still haring around the countryside as though she were no more than twenty-five!’

‘Must be close to eighty now, I imagine?’

‘Admits to sixty, I believe,’ returned Wyvern, as Fitzallan’s curricle swung into Grosvenor Square. ‘You will come in and say “hello”, of course—she always had a soft spot for you.’

Pulling out his timepiece, Fitzallan looked down and shook his head ruefully. ‘Some other time, if you will excuse me. Arranged to meet Holt at Brooks’s—half an hour late already. P’raps you’ll get the chance to look in on us later this evening?’

Promising that he would see what he could do, Wyvern leapt down from his perch, saluted his friend and mounted the shallow steps up to the front door of the family’s Grosvenor Square residence, to which he shortly found himself admitted by his grandmother’s elderly retainer.

‘Good to see you back safely, your lordship,’ beamed Jesmond, as he ushered Wyvern into the hall and signalled to a waiting footman to relieve him of his outdoor garments. ‘Your luggage arrived this morning. Her ladyship has been expecting you hourly. You will find her in the red salon.’

Still unable to prevent the recoil of distaste that he felt at hearing himself addressed by what had been, until a mere two months previously, his older brother Theodore’s title, the new earl strode across the hall to greet his grandmother, who was presently emerging from the doorway of the aforementioned salon.

‘Benedict! My dearest boy—you have arrived at last!’

A tall, white-haired lady, now in her eighty-first year, Lady Lavinia Ashcroft, Dowager Countess of Wyvern, moved gracefully towards her grandson, exhibiting considerable agility for one of her advanced years. Unlike a good many of her peers, she disdained the prevailing fashion for the semi-transparent muslin afternoon dress and was elegantly clad in a simple but expertly cut round gown of black kerseymere, trimmed at the neck with a neat white ruff.

After kissing Wyvern soundly on both cheeks, she held him at arm’s length, carefully scrutinising his ruggedly handsome face.

‘You look tired, my boy. I shall have Mrs Winters prepare you a bath—but first, you must join me in a glass of brandy. Jesmond!’

Taking his arm, she allowed her grandson to escort her back into the red salon, so named because of the crimson silk wall hangings and curtains with which it had been furnished many years earlier. Smaller than any of the other reception rooms in the house, it was the Dowager Countess’s favourite place to sit in the afternoons, due mainly to the fact that its window overlooked the busy London square, providing her with not only ample advance warning of any impending visitor but, perhaps more significantly, enabling her to keep her eye on her neighbours’ comings and goings.

‘You have seen Humphreys?’ she enquired, as soon as Wyvern had taken his seat and Jesmond had left the room.

Wyvern nodded. ‘I went to Brentford first thing, as soon as we docked. But it is just as you said in your letter—Theo does appear to have taken his own life.’

‘Humphreys gave me to understand that your brother had left a letter for you. I trust that it contains some sort of explanation for his extraordinary behaviour of late?’

Extracting his brother’s missive from his pocket, Wyvern passed it to her. ‘Nothing of any consequence, I fear—apart from his apology. He was clearly very confused when he wrote it.’

Leaning back wearily, he ran his fingers through his crisp dark hair, mentally reviewing the singularly odd tenor of his brother’s last words.

Ben, old chap, the note read, Can’t go on—got myself into an unholy mess—can’t seem to sort it out—mine is yours now—too late for me. Save the Grange, I beg you—relying on you—remember where we used to play when we were lads—forgive me, Theo.

His forehead puckered in a frown. ‘I am still finding the whole affair almost impossible to comprehend. I was aware that Theo was pretty cut up after losing Sophia and young Edwin, of course, but I had no idea that he was in such a bad case. A fellow officer did hear a rumour that he was drinking heavily, but to learn that he has frittered away the entire family fortune on gambling and profligate living is unbelievable—especially when you consider that he was the one Father was wont to call “old sobersides”!’

Save for the sonorous ticking of the long-case clock in one corner, the red salon was silent until, suddenly conscious that his grandmother was waiting for him to continue, Wyvern, striving to keep his innermost feelings under control, took a deep breath.

‘Nevertheless,’ he managed eventually, ‘it is to his credit that Theo seems to have stopped drinking long enough to recover his senses. But he was clearly not himself when he wrote that note—if everything is as bad as Humphreys has given me to understand, how could Theo possibly have expected me to put it all right?’

‘I trust that you do not intend to fall into an emotional stew over this, my boy!’ retorted the countess, eyeing her grandson sharply. ‘Your brother proved himself to be a weakling and, in the end, it appears that he took the coward’s way out, so let us have no more repining over the matter!’

‘Hold hard, Grandmama!’ protested Wyvern, altogether taken aback at the countess’s apparent lack of sympathy towards his late brother. ‘You can hardly expect me to agree with your view that Theo was a weakling. Any man might turn to drink after such a tragedy, especially if he holds himself responsible for the death of his family, as Theo clearly must have done—he was driving the carriage, after all! His suffering must have been very great—’

‘Pish and tush!’ interrupted his grandmother dismissively. ‘He is not the first person in the world to have been bereaved and left to get on with life—nor will he be the last! I would remind you, young man, that I myself was left a widow at no more than twenty-two when your grandfather was tossed from his horse and broke his neck. Did I fall into a decline and take to drink, I ask you?’

Since this was clearly a rhetorical question, Wyvern shook his head and did not reply, knowing from past experience that to interrupt his grandmother when she was in full flood was a pointless exercise.

‘No, I did not!’ she went on. ‘With an estate to run—as well as two young children to raise—I put aside my grief and tears, buckled down and got on with it, so please do not whimper to me about suffering. It is bad enough that your brother gave in to his demons, but to leave you to deal with the problems that he had created and then decided that he could not cope with, is simply the outside of enough!’

At her grandson’s continued silence, she tossed back the remains of her drink and gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Well, I have said my piece—you may get up and leave in a huff if you choose but, if you are the man that I take you for, you will pour us both another brandy and let us get down to the business of discussing how we may set about undoing the damage caused by Theodore’s lack of self-discipline!’

Loath as he was to agree with his grandmother’s harsh observations regarding his much-loved brother, Wyvern had to admit that she did, perhaps, have something of a point and if, in fact, the very perceptive old lady could come up with any useful ideas concerning the rescuing of Ashcroft Grange from its creditors, it would certainly be unwise of him to lock horns with her at this juncture.

‘I take it that we have no wealthy relatives of whose existence I have been previously unaware?’ he asked, as he refilled her glass and handed it to her, retrieving at the same time his brother’s note, which the countess had carelessly tossed on to the drum table beside her seat.

‘Sadly, no.’ She chuckled, relieved to see that she had not dented his good humour. ‘If your Aunt Fiona’s begging letters are anything to go by, her Irish earl has even less than we have! No, dear boy, it seems to me that what we could really do with at the moment is a rich heiress on the lookout for a peerage!’

Wyvern stiffened. ‘I had always supposed that I might have some little say in the matter of choosing a bride,’ he demurred.

She peered at him suspiciously. ‘You are not already promised, I trust?’

Regretfully setting aside the intrusive images regarding a certain little Parisian opera-dancer he had lately had in his keeping, Wyvern gave a short laugh.

‘No such thing, I assure you! However, to return to the point, I am inclined to think it that it is fairly unlikely that even the most pushing of mothers would be willing to marry her daughter off to an absolute “down-and-out”—belted earl or no!’

‘Nonsense, Benedict!’ chided his grandmother. ‘The Ashcroft name must still count for something in this country.’

‘Not if what Humphreys has told me is anything to go by,’ returned Wyvern bitterly.

‘How dare the man!’ exclaimed the countess, lifting her chin and drawing herself up to her full height. ‘What has he been saying?’

Wyvern shrugged. ‘Well, I certainly received the impression that the Ashcroft name alone no longer carries sufficient weight to get us any more credit with Coutts—Theo, apparently, having exhausted their goodwill! Fortunately, Humphreys has managed to persuade the partners not to press for immediate repayment. Unfortunately, there is still the matter of all the other creditors who, I have little doubt, will soon be baying at our door!’

Lady Lavinia sipped thoughtfully at her drink.

‘Then it is clear that we will need to make a push right away, my boy,’ she said, ‘before the upper echelons get wind of the full extent of your brother’s transgressions—they have been known to close ranks for far less serious demeanours!’

She paused, contemplating her grandson for a moment, then gave a decisive nod.

‘We must set about arranging a soirée!’

‘A soirée!’ replied Wyvern, considerably taken aback. ‘But we are in still in mourning!’

She shrugged. ‘We do not have the time to consider all the social niceties, my boy. I was not thinking of a huge affair—just a few close friends, perhaps—simply to announce our re-entry into society. As for suitable bride material, we could do worse than start with Eulalia Capstick—she has been out for a couple of years now and still no takers! Or, better still, what about Felicity Draycott?’

Wyvern choked on his drink. ‘Do I take it that you have already drawn up a list of suitable females?’ he demanded in astonishment.

‘Not as such,’ replied the countess, with a haughty sniff. ‘But I have always found that it does no harm to keep one’s ear to the ground.’

‘And might I be permitted to know the names of the rest of these illustrious females whom you have selected as suitable candidates for my hand?’ asked Wyvern warily. ‘If my memory serves me right, the dumpy Miss Capstick must have at least five Seasons under her belt. And, even though our family has been acquainted with the Draycotts since Felicity was in leading strings, having partnered the lady at dinner on more than one occasion in the past, I can assure you that she is totally without conversation!’

‘Hardly a matter of the greatest consequence!’ grunted Lady Lavinia, waving her hand dismissively. ‘The gal comes with a dowry of fifty thousand pounds, as well as being sole heir to her father’s estates—one of which, if you recall, borders the most westerly side of Ashcroft. It would be hard to hit upon a more satisfactory solution to our difficulties! In addition to which, rumour has it that she has been carrying the torch for you ever since you were at Cambridge!’

An expression of acute displeasure crossed Wyvern’s face. ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ he returned hurriedly, ‘I would just as soon not further my acquaintance with Miss Draycott.’

Shaking her head, the countess rapped him sharply on the wrist with her fan. ‘You are in no position to be overly particular, Benedict,’ she said sharply. ‘Gals who are both wealthy and comely tend to have their pick of the town’s beaux! And, unfortunately for us, the market appears to have conjured up very few pretty faces this Season—apart from the Beresford chit, of course, but she—’

Wyvern’s ears immediately pricked up. ‘Beresford?’ he asked, his eyes agleam with curiosity.

His grandmother shrugged an elegant shoulder. ‘Jessica Beresford, current Belle of all the Balls!’ she said carelessly. ‘A cit’s daughter, of course, but he was one of those nabobs who came back from India positively dripping in lard. I once met the man, Sir Matthew Beresford—dead now, so I’m informed—encroaching little nobody he was, especially after he got his knighthood! Married an Emily Herrington, then took her off to India, where she died giving birth to the gal’s half-brother—who, I understand, is also Matthew by name.’

‘Half-brother?’ frowned Wyvern who, having found his attention all at once diverted by the most vivid memory of a pair of flashing green eyes, was desperately trying to keep up with his grandparent’s mercurial change of direction.

Lady Lavinia nodded. ‘The present Mr Beresford,’ she told him. ‘Seems the father would have nothing to do with the boy—blamed him for his wife’s death or some such nonsense! Anyway, Sir Matthew married again, a Blanche Deveril—I am not familiar with the family—and that marriage produced a further two offspring. Then, last year, this Mr Beresford turned up and laid claim to his dead father’s estate, married his stepmother’s niece and is now the Jessica chit’s guardian!’

Pausing for breath, she cast an inquisitive glance in her grandson’s direction, but then, having registered the riveted expression on his face, shook her head.

‘Jessica Beresford is not for you, Benedict,’ she said decisively. ‘I am reliably informed that her half-brother has inherited the bulk of Sir Matthew’s estate. The girl is worth a mere five thousand a year and, whilst such a sum may be sufficient to have half the town’s swells beating a path to her front door, it is not nearly enough for our purpose!’

‘Calm yourself, Grandmama,’ returned Wyvern, with a wry grin. ‘I assure you that I have no intention of joining the ranks of those ramshackle bucks! I have already had the dubious pleasure of meeting the young lady in question and find myself singularly disinclined to pursue the acquaintance.’

But then, having recalled his odd action regarding Jessica’s handkerchief, he flushed slightly and, in order to redirect his grandmother’s attention, queried, ‘Who else do you have in mind for this grand scheme of yours?’

The countess’s brow furrowed. ‘Well, there are one or two other heiresses worthy of consideration, plus the usual smattering of rich widows, for instance—if you have no objection to an older woman?’

‘From where I’m standing,’ remarked Wyvern dryly, ‘even the two-headed, bearded lady from Astley’s Circus is beginning to sound quite plausible—provided that she has the necessary wherewithal, of course!’

‘Now you are just being ridiculous,’ sighed the dowager, then, glaring at her grandson, added, ‘Do you mean to try to save the Grange or don’t you?’

Wyvern ran his fingers distractedly through his crisp dark hair. ‘I mean to do my best,’ he replied stiffly. ‘There are other avenues I might explore.’

‘Such as?’

He shrugged. ‘I will need to return to Ashcroft and take a look for myself—assess the damage and so on. It is possible that things may not be quite as bad as Humphreys has led me to believe—he has always been something of a doom merchant, as I recall!’

‘Anything is possible, I suppose,’ retorted his grandmother. ‘Nevertheless, you must certainly go there as soon as possible—there are still several members of staff in residence. I dare say I might manage to rake up sufficient funds to pay them something of what they are owed.’

Wyvern froze. It had completely slipped his mind that the countess had already met the cost of his brother’s funeral and other sundry expenses while awaiting his return from Paris, where he had been serving with the Army of Occupation. For several minutes he studied her closed expression then, making up his mind, he said diffidently, ‘I suppose it would do no harm to pay a courtesy visit to the Draycotts—our families were on quite good terms at one time, as I recall.’

Her eyes softening, his grandmother looked across at him and gave a brisk nod. ‘That is exceedingly sensible of you, Benedict. Saving the estate is far more important than pandering to our own personal likes and dislikes—Ashcroft Grange has been in the family for over three hundred years. It was a hard struggle for me to keep it going sixty years ago and now it is your turn—you simply must not let it go without putting up some sort of a fight!’

Jumping to his feet and crossing the short space that separated them, Wyvern sat down beside his grandmother and grasped her hands.

‘I promise you that I will do whatever it takes, dearest one,’ he said, strengthening his resolve. ‘Miss Felicity Draycott will find me to be everything a girl has ever dreamed of, you have my word!’

Chapter Four

Owing to several pressing business engagements, Matt Beresford had been temporarily obliged to shelve the matter of discovering the identity of his siblings’ benefactor. He did, however, feel constrained to remonstrate with Lieutenant Stevenage when, three days later, that young man eventually returned to town.

On arriving at the Beresford residence, the lieutenant was shown straight away into the ground-floor study, where a stern-faced Beresford awaited him and, without further ceremony, confronted him with the series of disastrous events that had occurred following Jessica’s defiant exit from the inn at Turnham Green.

‘And now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?’ demanded Matt, fixing the lieutenant with his most severe frown.

Stevenage’s cheeks had grown pale with shock. ‘I really must crave your pardon, Mr Beresford,’ he stammered. ‘I begged her not to attempt the journey, but she…’

‘Has a mind of her own?’ supplied Matt who, being well acquainted with Jessica’s obstinate streak, was not entirely unsympathetic to the young man’s plight.

A vivid flush then covered Stevenage’s face but, squaring his shoulders and looking his host straight in the eye, he said, ‘Nevertheless, sir, I hold myself entirely responsible for what happened and give you my word that, should such a situation ever occur again, Miss Beresford’s welfare will be my primary concern.’

‘Along with your sister’s, I trust?’ interposed Beresford dryly.

‘Er—yes, but of course,’ came Stevenage’s hurried response. ‘Both ladies would be of equal concern, naturally!’

Matt’s lips began to twitch. ‘And how is Miss Stevenage?’ he asked, anxious to save the young man any further embarrassment. ‘I trust that she suffered no great hurt?’

‘Nothing of consequence, sir. I sent a message to my father and he came down with a carriage and took Olivia home—she is fine now, sir.’ The lieutenant paused, eyed Matt nervously then, taking a deep breath, went on, ‘I’m truly sorry about the landau, sir. I thought it best to remain at the inn until your coachman recovered, but then he refused to leave until the pole was fixed, which is why I have been out of town for so long—I would not care for you to think that I was fighting shy of facing you!’

There was such an earnest expression on the young lieutenant’s face that it was all Matt could do to control the wide grin that threatened. During his short acquaintance with Stevenage, he had found him to be a most honourable young man and, prior to this recent contretemps, had seen no reason to put any obstacle in the way of his growing friendship with Jessica. Matt knew that it would be a good many years before the young man, at barely twenty-two years of age and at the very beginning of his military career, would find himself in any position to support a wife. And, although it was clear that Stevenage was, for the moment at any rate, besotted with his young half-sister, Beresford was reasonably sure that he was not the sort to take liberties. This, along with the fact that Stevenage had a sister of an age with Jessica, made him, as far as both Matt and Imogen were concerned, a safe escort and ideal companion for the girl.

‘Your apology is accepted,’ he grunted. ‘I dare say you did the best you could, in the circumstances.’ And, gesturing towards the tantalus on his desk, he offered Stevenage a glass of brandy. ‘Luckily for all of us, none of you suffered any serious damage—but take it as a lesson, my boy!’

A few quick sips of the fiery spirit settled the young man’s nerves sufficiently for him to pluck up sufficient courage to enquire whether he might be permitted to escort Jessica again, some time in the near future.

‘I believe we have engaged a box at the Drury Lane this evening,’ said Matt, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Perhaps you and your sister would care to join us?’

Although he was far from being an ardent devotee of the opera, Stevenage accepted his host’s offer with alacrity, reasoning that it would be well worth sitting through a few hours of unintelligible caterwauling just for the pleasure of seeing Jessica again. Olivia, he felt certain, would be more than happy to accompany him.

When the siblings arrived at the theatre, however, he found Jessica strangely preoccupied. She seemed pleased to see both him and his sister again and even offered him a very pretty apology for ignoring his advice the other day. But then, apart from enquiring after Olivia’s health, she seemed disinclined to say much at all and, by the time they had been shown to their box and settled themselves into their appointed seats, the performance was ready to begin. After that, although Stevenage made valiant attempts to catch her eye throughout the first act, the volume of sound issuing from the combined talents of the orchestra and chorus, coupled with the constant hubbub from the patrons in the cheaper seats in the gallery above, pretty well drowned out any real attempt at conversation. Heaving a sigh, and hoping for better luck in the interval, he tried to concentrate his attention on the stage but, after some few minutes, gave this up, having been unable to fathom out what the devil was going on!

As his frustration and boredom increased, his eyelids gradually drooped, then closed and, had not the act climaxed on a sudden, rousing crescendo, he might well have fallen asleep. Instantly on the alert, his eyes flew open and he was up on his feet almost before the curtains closed. Motioning to Nicholas, he was just about to suggest that both they and the two girls might use this opportunity to slip out into the corridor and stretch their legs for a few minutes, when he heard Jessica’s excited whisper.

‘Nicky! Nicky!’ She was clutching at her brother’s arm. ‘Look over there! The third box from the stage! I’m certain that that’s him!’

‘Him—who?’ Momentarily confused, Nicholas peered across the crowded auditorium. Then, as his eyes settled on the box his sister had indicated, his face cleared. ‘By Jove, I believe you’re right!’ he exclaimed, and almost fell off his chair in his eagerness to reach his half-brother, in order to point out Jessica’s discovery to him. ‘It’s that Wyvern fellow, Matt,’ he cried jubilantly. ‘Look! Over there! Ought we to go across and speak to him, do you suppose?’

Jessica’s emerald eyes were alight with excitement and she could feel her heart beating at the most incredible rate. She had spent the past three days in hourly expectation of the stranger calling to enquire after their welfare. Why this had become such a matter of importance to her, she was at a loss to fathom, especially when she recalled the stranger’s high-handed attitude towards her. Yet the very sight of him, sitting a mere twenty-five yards across from her, was causing her to experience a quite extraordinary fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

He was not alone. Seated to one side of him was a very elderly lady, who was one of the most formidable-looking females that Jessica had ever set eyes upon. She could not recollect having been introduced to such an aristocratic dowager at any of the many illustrious events she had attended and, since the lady was hardly the sort of person one could readily forget, she concluded that she, along with her escort, must be newcomers to town.

Sliding her eyes across to the second female in the box, she gave a gasp of dismay. Unless she was much mistaken, the man’s other companion was Felicity Draycott, one of a coterie of coolly elegant, but rather haughty, damsels who had spent the greater part of Jessica’s time in town offering her the cold shoulder! Not that this had bothered Jessica unduly, since she had been enjoying herself far too much to pay a great deal of attention to their disapproving glances. But, why on earth such a devilishly handsome and elegantly turned-out man would want to waste himself on such a toplofty companion she could not begin to fathom—unless, of course, the Draycott female was some sort of relative of his! Having decided that this was the only reasonable conclusion that could be reached, her lips began to curve, her eyes grew bright and, as she watched Matt enter Wyvern’s box, a shudder of excited anticipation ran through her.

Stevenage, who had been observing her growing excitement, demanded to know what all the fuss was about. ‘Why all this sudden interest in Ben Ashcroft?’ he asked, somewhat tetchily.

‘Ashcroft?’ said Imogen, turning towards him, a bewildered look on her face. ‘I was given to understand that the gentleman’s name was Wyvern?’

Stevenage shrugged. ‘Yes, well, since he’s just inherited his brother’s title, I suppose it would be more proper to refer to him as Lord Wyvern,’ he replied indifferently. ‘I met him when he was an officer with the 13th Light. Our units were quartered together when I was in Paris last year. He’s only just returned home.’ He paused momentarily then, turning back to Jessica, he said, ‘Funnily enough, he was at the Rose and Crown the other day, when we were there—he’d stopped to water his horse and have a bite to eat, so he told me.’

‘At the Rose and Crown!’ cried Jessica, in astonishment. ‘I don’t remember seeing him! And you say you spoke to him? Where was this?’

‘In the taproom,’ replied Stevenage, with a puzzled frown. ‘After you and Nicky took off—why so much interest in the fellow?’

‘He’s only the chap who saved us from those two thugs!’ exploded Nicholas. Then, as a sudden thought occurred to him, he added, ‘I suppose it must have been you who told him who we were?’

Stevenage flushed, remembering that after Jessica and her brother had driven off, instead of returning directly to his sister as he had planned, he had stomped off into the taproom and tossed back quite a large quantity of brandy, in order to try to quell his feelings of helpless frustration.

‘Possibly,’ he replied warily. ‘I don’t actually recall the entire conversation.’

He did, however, have the most uncomfortable feeling that his exasperation at Jessica’s having ignored his advice, coupled with the effects of imbibing a good deal more liquor than was his usual custom, might well have caused him to express his opinions about her cussedness rather more freely than propriety demanded.

‘No sweat, Harry,’ said Nicholas absently, his attention still on the box opposite. ‘We just wondered how he came by the information—oh, look! They’re shaking hands and Matt is leaving!’

In barely suppressed expectation, Jessica awaited the return of her brother, her mind awhirl with possibilities. Had he invited the stranger—no, Lord Wyvern, now, she reminded herself—to call on them? Or, perhaps, to join them for dinner? She looked over at the earl’s box and a little shiver of excitement ran through her as she saw that Wyvern, having returned to his seat, was now looking in their direction. He was even more handsome than she had remembered! Her eyes shone more brightly than ever and, cheeks dimpling, she beamed one of her most enchanting smiles across the auditorium.

When Beresford returned to their box, however, the information that he carried with him was hardly promising. Wyvern had, of course, been everything that he should be. Glad to meet an old acquaintance of his late brother, more than happy to have been of service to the two young travellers, and so on. He had thanked Beresford for his invitations and had assured him that he would do his best to call on the family at some time in the near future but, because of pressing business commitments, he was unable to say when that might be.

On the other side of the theatre, Wyvern, in spite of himself, found his gaze drawn to the box opposite. For some inexplicable reason, he found himself more than interested to register Jessica’s reaction to her brother’s announcement. He did not have long to wait. No sooner had the gist of Matt’s words begun to sink in than the dazzling smile was dashed from her lips, only to be replaced by an expression of the most profound disappointment.

Wyvern’s brow furrowed; after the girl’s rather haughty treatment of him the other day, he could not understand why his negative response to Beresford’s invitation should elicit such an extreme reaction from her. But then, he reasoned to himself, given what young Stevenage had, inadvertently, let fall about the lovely Miss Beresford, coupled with the not entirely favourable impression that he himself had formed, it was not beyond the realms of fantasy to conclude that these highly exaggerated mannerisms were merely part of a well-practised routine on her part.

Having seen the astonishingly reckless manner in which she had flourished a bulky wad of banknotes under the stableman’s nose—to the considerable interest of a good many onlookers—followed by her total disregard for both her brother’s and Stevenage’s counsel, it had come as no surprise to Wyvern to discover that Miss Beresford in person was even more pig-headed than he had been given to understand. Clearly used to having things go her way, and heaven help those who had the temerity to cross her!

Well, the little madam could bat her eyelashes at him until the cows came home, thought Wyvern, with a disdainful shrug, but if she really imagined that she could persuade him to join the ranks of all those young jackanapes who were dancing to her tune, she was about to discover how very wrong she was! The girl clearly need to be taught some sort of a lesson and, as his mind dwelt upon the various ways in which the condescending Miss Beresford might be brought to heel, it very soon occurred to Wyvern that, had he but had the time at his disposal, he would not have been at all disinclined to take on the job himself! Such a pleasant distraction could well prove to be most gratifying!

As the gas lamps in the auditorium were slowly lowered for the start of the second act, an introspective gleam came into his eyes and his lips curved in amusement as he contemplated the possibilities. That softly rounded figure—he could well imagine how that would feel in his arms! And those eyes! He would swear that a man might drown in those glorious pools and be only too glad to do so! A sudden clash of cymbals from the orchestra pit jolted him out of this agreeable reverie and thrust him rudely back to his senses. A deep frown puckered his brow. What, in the name of thunder, had got into him? As if he didn’t have more than enough complications in his life already!

Having spent the past few days investigating the true state of affairs at Ashcroft Grange, he had discovered that, to his considerable relief, the situation was not nearly as hopeless as the solicitor, Humphreys, had led him to believe. Many valuable artefacts had disappeared, it was true, but Wyvern was soon to learn that the handful of dedicated servants still in residence had been more than anxious to restore the property to its former glory and had worked very hard to repair the damage that had been caused by his brother’s in-continent associates.

Brigham, the elderly land agent, had informed his new master that there was still sufficient revenue coming in from the four tenant farmers to keep the estate ticking over for several months, given that nothing out of the way occurred in the meantime. This being so, Wyvern was reasonably confident that, for the moment, at any rate, the interest from what was left of his own small capital would just about cover the servants’ wages and his own day-to-day expenses.

And, even though he had never felt the slightest inclination to involve himself in the running of the rambling estate, the intricate workings of which were still something of a mystery to him, these findings were of some comfort to him. Even more so to his grandmother, perhaps, who had spent the entire period of Wyvern’s absence in a continual fret as to what news he would impart to her on his return from Brentford.

There still remained, however, the formidable dilemma of how to lay his hands on the prodigious amount of money needed to satisfy the late earl’s creditors who, as soon as the news of Wyvern’s arrival back in the capital had reached their ears, were already starting to clamour for satisfaction.

It was entirely as a result of his deep concern regarding this seemingly insurmountable problem that he had finally agreed to accompany his grandmother on a pre-arranged call to Draycott House that very morning.

His dark eyes slid over to the young lady who was seated at his right. With her hands folded primly into her lap, her whole attention appeared to be focussed on the stage below. Having spent the entire obligatory half-hour of the morning visit attempting to engage her in some sort of conversation, it had not taken him very long to realise that, since she had failed to express a single opinion on any of the many topics he had raised, Miss Draycott was apparently still quite incapable of forming one! In addition, she seemed to have developed the most disconcerting habit of demurely lowering her eyes and glancing to one side whenever she spoke, thus avoiding any direct confrontation. And, whilst any other man might find this coy mannerism rather appealing, to Wyvern it was starting to be a distinct irritation.

As a soft sigh escaped his lips, he felt the countess’s hand on his arm. Turning to face her, he gave a rueful shake of his head, having decided that, despite all of the Draycotts’ obvious wealth and background, he might well be forced to look elsewhere for his family’s salvation.

Across the auditorium, the entire second half of the performance passed completely over Jessica’s head, so stunned was she at Wyvern’s rebuff. Had he walked into the box and slapped her across the face she could hardly have been more mortified. She bit hard on her lip to prevent the tears from forming. To think that she had been prepared—even eager, as she recalled in embarrassment—to put that first unfortunate encounter with Wyvern behind her and begin anew. After all, she reasoned, how could she possibly have known that the man who had come to their aid was an earl? He had not introduced himself properly and he certainly had not behaved as one might have expected a member of the aristocracy to behave. In fact, as she recalled, having failed to dismount in order to assist her from the carriage, the man had been singularly discourteous!

Straightening her shoulders, she furtively wiped away the single tear that had managed to find its way on to her cheek and vowed to put the beastly man out of her mind. It was hardly as though she was short of beaux, she reminded herself crossly. She could name more than a dozen hopefuls who would happily cut off their right arms just for one dance with her! But then, as a sudden vision of that rather unpleasant spectacle presented itself to her, she gave a little shudder and, conscious of Stevenage’s anxious eyes upon her, she turned and bestowed such a sweet smile upon the young lieutenant that he was totally overcome.

Chapter Five

Wearily tossing aside yet another demand for immediate reimbursement of one of the many outstanding debts incurred by his brother, Wyvern leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, endeavouring to make some sense of the seemingly hopeless mess that had been bequeathed to him.

Although he was reasonably confident in the knowledge that Brigham, the Grange’s highly competent manager, was doing his best to return the estate to something of its former excellence, the hiring of the extra labour required had made considerable inroads into what was left of Wyvern’s available funds. Added to which, the lavish affair that his grandmother had insisted upon throwing the following Friday looked set to deplete them even further. More than once this week already, a highly embarrassed Jesmond had been obliged to draw the earl’s attention to the disturbing fact that several of the family’s long-standing suppliers had taken to requesting cash payments for the innumerable items that Lady Lavinia had ordered to mark the family’s re-entry into society. She, however, had been loftily unrepentant, having pointed out that it would hardly do to give their guests even the slightest hint that the family might be in some sort of financial difficulty.

With a resigned sigh, Wyvern rose to his feet and began to pace about the room, racking his brains to find some solution to the problem. No matter how offensive the idea was to him, it was becoming abundantly clear that he would have to apply for a loan of some sort—but to whom could he turn? He had not failed to register Humphreys’s caution that Theo had outrun the patience of all the major banking facilities, so he was fairly sure that, even were he to approach them ‘cap in hand’, so to speak, it was highly improbable that any petition from himself would be likely to find favour amongst that closely-knit brotherhood either.

He was not unmindful of the fact that, should he care to request their assistance, he was extremely fortunate in that he had a great many acquaintances who would not hesitate to come to his rescue. Indeed, every day for the past week, his dearest friend, Sir Simon Holt, had been urgently pressing him to accept loans of quite ridiculous sums of money with no conditions attached. To add grist to his mill and, despite the earl’s protests to the contrary, Holt had not hesitated to point out to his friend that, had it not been for Wyvern’s quick action in the field at Waterloo, he himself would not have survived the battle.

Nevertheless, Wyvern was loath to avail himself of his friend’s generous offer. Having seen other close friendships founder under similar well-meant circumstances and knowing that, as things stood at present, he had absolutely no hope of ever being able to repay such a loan, he could not bring himself to opt for a course that, in the end, could well jeopardise his long-term friendship with his ex-comrade-in-arms.

All of which led him to the only available alternative, highly distasteful though it might be! In the absence of any other salvation and since it was clear that the situation was beginning to grow somewhat desperate, it would seem that coupling his name with one or other of the heiresses on Lady Lavinia’s list looked to be the only option left to him!

In spite of his long absence from town, he was sufficiently versed in the ways of its inhabitants to know that any received impression that a gentleman might soon be about to benefit from a sudden increase in his fortune, either through inheritance or by marriage, was enough to hold his creditors at bay. Indeed, given that a debtor’s future prospects were deemed to be more or less cut and dried and of sufficiently generous proportions, a great many of those creditors were often inclined to press their client into borrowing even more money from them.

Several days had passed since the visit to the opera, during which time he had not only paid two morning visits to Felicity, but had also accompanied her to a musical evening given by one of her mother’s acquaintances. Having cast his eyes over the few remaining names on his grandmother’s list, he had been obliged to conclude that, despite her obvious drawbacks, it was clear that Sir Jonathan Draycott’s daughter was the best of a very dismal bunch!

He had seldom allowed thoughts of marriage to intrude on his carefree bachelor life, particularly after Theo and Sophie had secured the Ashcroft lineage by obligingly producing a son. But he was finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that he, who, scarcely six months previously, might have had the pick of the Season’s tastiest offerings, now appeared to be considerably restricted as to choice!

As he cast his mind back over his not-unimpressive string of past conquests, he could not help but heave a deep sigh of regret. He then had to take himself severely to task, reminding himself that marrying for love, amongst persons of his rank and status, was hardly an option. Marriage, as far as members of the aristocracy were concerned, was simply a convenient method of increasing land assets whilst, at the same time, preserving the quality of long-established pedigrees. In this sense, Felicity Draycott, despite her lack of any discernible charisma, was perfectly acceptable and, in the general way, all that a countess needed to be. Added to which, since the lady—according to his grandmother—seemed to hold him in a certain amount of esteem and, it appeared, had turned down more than one prospective suitor during his prolonged absence, it was not unreasonable to assume that she would be willing to accept his proposal—if he could just bring himself to make the offer!

Nonetheless, the thought of having to spend the rest of his days—not to mention the nights, as he reminded himself with a wry grimace!—in such uninspiring company filled him with despair. The idea of finding himself part of that sad little company of disillusioned husbands who, with increasing regularity, chose to spend most of their lives in one club or another, or in the clandestine company of a series of other females, was too sickening to contemplate.

On returning to his desk, his attention was caught by a glint from the green glass paperweight in front of him. All at once, the recurring memory of a pair of sparkling green eyes invaded his thoughts. Now there was a girl who had no difficulty in expressing an opinion, he reflected, as his lips curved in a whimsical smile. Had he been a gambling man, he would have been prepared to lay odds that Jessica Beresford was the sort who would always give as good as she got! He suspected that life with that little spitfire would be anything but boring!

Sadly, however, any further contemplation of Miss Beresford’s attributes was forestalled by a light tap on the door and the butler’s subsequent entry, it having transpired that the late earl’s manservant had just arrived in the house and was requesting an immediate audience with his new master.

‘Cranwell?’ frowned Wyvern, returning abruptly to his senses. ‘Show him in at once, Jesmond! Whatever it is must be pretty important to have brought him all this way!’

As well as having served as valet to both Wyvern’s father and brother, Cranwell was also the unfortunate servant who, having carried out the late earl’s order to deliver that very puzzling letter into the hands of the solicitor, had returned to Ashcroft Grange to discover his young master’s dead body slumped across the library desk. However, due to the man’s unswerving loyalty to the family over the years—not to mention his advancing years—Wyvern had not yet had the heart to tell the elderly valet that his services were no longer needed. Instead, he had left Cranwell with instructions to put whatever remained of the late Lord Wyvern’s personal effects into some sort of order. This being so, and given that it was barely three days since he himself had returned from Ashcroft, he was at a loss to understand what possible difficulty Cranwell could have encountered that had necessitated him undertaking such a wearisome journey to the capital.

Resuming his seat at the desk, he waited for Jesmond to return with the unexpected visitor. Then, casting an intent look at the elderly manservant, he enquired, kindly, ‘Well, now, Cranwell! What great emergency has brought you all this way—even you cannot possibly have finished sorting out his late lordship’s gear in such a short time, surely?’

A brief smile crossed the man’s face and he shook his head. He had been with the family long enough to recognise when he was being roasted.

‘I’m afraid not, your lordship,’ he replied, in his usual staid accents. ‘I still have plenty to occupy me in that respect. I am here on a rather more pressing matter—Mr Brigham was of the opinion that it needed to be brought to your notice immediately.’

His attention caught, Wyvern leaned forward. ‘Well, out with it, man! What is so pressing that a letter would not have served?’

‘We—ah…um—That is, Mr Brigham and Mr Kirmington and myself, sir—We felt that it would be more advisable to inform you directly, sir. The fact is, your lordship,’ he burst out hurriedly, having perceived the growing impatience on Wyvern’s face, ‘we have reason to believe that the Grange has been broken into!’

‘Broken into!’ returned Wyvern, astounded. ‘Burgled, do you mean?’

‘Well, no, sir, not exactly,’ came the man’s hesitant reply. ‘Things have been moved around—drawers tipped up and so on, but, as far as we can ascertain, nothing has been removed.’ He paused, then added, almost apologetically, ‘As you are aware, my lord, there is very little of value left to be taken and that, sir, is the reason I am here. We do believe, sir—ah…um—Mr Kirm—’

‘Yes, yes, I know!’ cut in Wyvern sharply. ‘You and Brigham and the butler—for pity’s sake, man—what the devil is it that you all believe?’

‘We are all of the opinion that he—They—Whoever—Must have been searching for something, my lord. And, my lord, I would venture a guess that it must be something rather important. As far as we are able to establish, there seem to have been three separate attempts so far, in spite of all our efforts to secure the property!’

Wyvern was mystified. ‘But all the doors and windows are kept locked at night, surely?’

‘Of course, sir,’ affirmed Cranwell. ‘However, we now believe that entry must have been made by way of the pantry window, which, as you may recall, sir, is less than a foot square and has no lock. It was not until Cook complained to Mr Kirmington this very morning that a butter crock had been knocked off the windowsill and several items of food had gone missing, that Mr Kirmington, upon investigation, noticed that the window latch had been forced, leading us to the conclusion that this had been the means of entry.’

Pausing briefly in order to determine whether the frowning earl was still following his argument, he then ventured, ‘Mr Brigham has subsequently repaired the damage to the window, your lordship, and has taken the precaution of fitting a padlock to the latch.’

Wyvern pursed his lips. ‘And you say that these—break-ins, as you call them—have occurred on three separate occasions?’

Cranwell inclined his head. ‘On each night since your departure, sir. On Monday, the library was ransacked—books pulled from the shelves and thrown about the place. On Tuesday, every single drawer and cupboard was emptied and the contents rummaged through and, last night, those few pictures that we still have left were lifted from the walls and their backings removed! Mr Brigham was of the opinion that, even though he is certain that he has foiled any further attempts to gain access, the matter should be brought to your attention without delay.’ Shooting a questioning glance at his master, he added, ‘Clearly someone in search of something, as I am sure your lordship would agree?’

‘So it would seem,’ acknowledged Wyvern, his brow puckering. Having spent the best part of his three-day sojourn at the Grange collecting every available scrap of paperwork he could lay his hands on, he was reasonably confident that nothing of moment could have been left behind. ‘However, what does rather puzzle me is how all of this somewhat destructive activity could have occurred without any of you servants being aware of it!’

‘Begging your lordship’s pardon, sir,’ returned Cranwell, nervously shifting his stance, ‘but, in view of the fact that the house staff has been reduced to a mere half-dozen or so—not to mention the fact that male and female staff are housed in separate attic wings…’ He flushed uncomfortably and his voice petered out.

‘Point taken, Cranwell,’ replied Wyvern heavily, as he called to mind the complicated warren of rooms, stairways and corridors that comprised the Grange, which was situated at the foot of a shallow escarpment, on the ridge of which could still be seen the ruins of what had once been the Cistercian monastery of Wyvern Abbey. Following his Act of Dissolution, Henry VIII had gifted the abbey, along with its considerable acreage of land, to Sir Cedric Ashcroft, in reward for his support during the previous year’s rebellions. Sir Cedric, created First Earl of Wyvern, had plundered the buff-coloured limestone from the decaying monastery to make extensive alterations to what had been, originally, the Abbey’s farmhouse. The present dwelling, due to successive earls having continued to alter, reshape and impose their own ideas on the original property, was now an impressive house, some four storeys high, winged on either side of its magnificent frontage by two lofty extensions.

Unfortunately, the building had grown into a structure of such rambling proportions that Wyvern was bound to concede that the idea of anyone situated in one of its attic rooms being able to hear intruders in another part of the house was, to say the least, somewhat unreasonable.

Rising to his feet, he tugged at the bell cord. ‘You travelled up by the mail, I take it?’ he asked the manservant.

Cranwell shook his head. ‘No, my lord,’ he replied. ‘In view of the urgency of the situation, I took the liberty of hiring a chaise.’

‘Very wise of you, Cranwell,’ returned Wyvern. Then, allowing himself a slight smile, he added, encouragingly, ‘It was perfectly correct of you to bring this matter to my attention. Jesmond will see that you are given some refreshments and, as soon as you are sufficiently rested, I shall accompany you back to the Grange. We must see if we cannot put a stop to all this nonsense!’

After he had delivered the weary but now considerably relieved Cranwell into the butler’s competent hands, the frowning Wyvern returned to his seat at the desk.

Yet another problem to add to an already quite formidable list, he thought grimly, as he endeavoured to apply his mind to the question of who could have broken into Ashcroft Grange and, rather more to the point, for what could these intruders have been searching?

Chapter Six

Although Jessica made every effort to banish the dilemma of Wyvern’s indifference from her thoughts, the highly provoking subject continued to plague her.

She found it hard to believe that the man could be so high in the instep as to regard her family as beneath his touch. Thanks to Imogen’s godmother, Lady Sydenham, having successfully paved the way for them, the Beresford family had been extremely well received by the beau monde. Imogen and Matt were well liked, and Jessica herself, as she could hardly have remained unaware, was extremely popular, not only with most of the young men about town, but also with quite a few of their female counterparts.

Back home in Kirton Priors, she had always reigned supreme in the popularity stakes. Here in the capital of the fashionable world, however, it had not taken her very long to discover that holding such an undisputed position in one’s own small neighbourhood was, in reality, of rather small consequence when one found oneself surrounded by a not inconsiderable number of other very attractive young ladies. Consequently, she had taken Imogen’s advice and had gone out of her way to make friends with many of her fellow debutantes—with the possible exception of the somewhat stuffy coterie to which Miss Felicity Draycott belonged!

All of which made Wyvern’s complete lack of interest in seeking any sort of introduction very difficult for her to comprehend. Eventually, however, after having forced herself to review their first encounter, she was obliged to admit that her own conduct towards the helpful stranger had not been all that it might have been, in the circumstances. Moreover, the longer she thought about it, despite all arguments to the contrary, it became increasingly obvious to her that the reason she had behaved so badly at the time was that Wyvern had managed to discompose her in a way that few men of her acquaintance had ever succeeded in doing.

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